


Rus in Urbe

by Dira Sudis (dsudis)



Series: Urbe Aureā [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Developing Relationship, Gardens & Gardening, Gift Giving, Hair Washing, M/M, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25097026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/pseuds/Dira%20Sudis
Summary: In which Emhyr goes a bit too far, and then Geralt goes as far as he needs to, and back again.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: Urbe Aureā [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635157
Comments: 350
Kudos: 869





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Cyan for beta, and to Quarra and the trash gang for encouraging this all along!
> 
>  _Rus in urbe_ is a Latin phrase, literally "wilderness in the city", which refers to a garden or retreat in the midst of urban life.
> 
> This is the last middle story! After this I am definitely working on The One Where Eskel Shows Up, which will be... long. Unless I think of a clever way to cut it up further, but probably: long, and accordingly slow to arrive.
> 
> This story is all written, so, 2020 permitting, chapters should post daily!

On the sixteenth consecutive morning that Emhyr woke with Geralt in his bed, he found himself for once barely tempted to linger. Geralt let him go with the usual sleepy grumbling, and Emhyr only paused for a moment to marvel at the witcher tucking his face into Emhyr's pillow and sprawling out again in unguarded slumber.

Even that sight didn't transfix him for long, however. Not today. 

His valet, well accustomed to the routine by now, waited until Emhyr had walked past the foot of the bed to enter the room, and Emhyr enjoyed the little rituals of being dressed and shaved, sipping tea between sweeps of the razor. Geralt slept on, unconcerned, by now as accustomed to the valet's presence as the valet was to Geralt's. 

When he'd dismissed the servants and was alone again with the sleeping Geralt, Emhyr withdrew the key he'd had tucked away in an inner pocket of his surcoat for a week now, and lay it carefully in the center of the breakfast table. The servants would know to arrange Geralt's breakfast without disturbing it--if Geralt did not somehow sense its presence and wake to find it before they arrived with his meal. 

Emhyr turned away, wasting no more time; he doubted Geralt would take long to find what the key gave him access to, and Emhyr wanted to get a proper look at it himself first.

Emhyr hadn't set foot in the conservatory since a fortnight earlier, when he'd walked through with Martin, the specialist gardener assigned to the project, to show him exactly what he'd had in mind. He had had daily updates and sketches showing progress, but the reality of the space, when he stepped inside, was still enough to stop him in his tracks. After a moment he stepped inside far enough to close and lock the door behind him.

When Emhyr had first led Geralt through it, on the day of that momentous negotiation in the rose garden, this had been a quite ordinary conservatory--a space where one might take leisure in a garden-like environment, without enduring the discomforts of weather or insects in the outdoor gardens. Even the citrus trees had been intended more as ornament and curiosity than food production, though Emhyr had directed that the oranges be regularly harvested and delivered to Geralt's rooms. The plants, arranged in pots and trays on the tiled floor, had been purely decorative, with plenty of space left for elegant furniture, with wide paths for the convenience of servants and to avoid dirtied hems.

Now it was something altogether different. The chairs and couches and incidental tables had disappeared, leaving only a long unadorned workbench along one wall and two sturdy stools as the only furnishings. Every other inch of space was devoted to plants, in a dizzying variety, packed as densely as their various growing requirements permitted. The sheer unrelenting _efficiency_ of the space made it feel like another world from the rest of the palace. Although the specimens had been arranged with pleasing symmetry where possible, the only element that was at all frivolous was the corner where roses of multiple colors had been trained over a frame; even the roses were present primarily to create cover for plants that required shade to grow. 

Emhyr walked carefully down the narrow pathways left to navigate the space, looking carefully at the results of all the work. Martin had had an entire staff, including mages, laboring day and night to source the plants and make sure they could all be accommodated in the same space--several requiring colder weather were still in another building under preserving enchantments, awaiting Geralt's opinion on where and how it would be best to establish them. Cirilla had assisted with acquiring some of the items from particularly remote locations, and of course had advised them on the catalogue of plants Geralt would wish to have ready access to for brewing his potions.

And now virtually every plant she had been able to name or hunt up in a week's research was here, growing in neat clusters and rows. Each type of plant had a marker with a stamped number, corresponding to an entry in the ledger waiting on the workbench, which would have a record of what the plant was, where and how it had been harvested, and what methods had been used to cultivate it here.

There were two separate pools with plants growing in them, one of fresh water and one salt, plus an artificial stream for those that required moving water.

Emhyr crouched beside it, resisting the temptation to dip his fingers into the flowing water. Cirilla and the gardeners had all been extremely clear on how rampantly toxic the plants could be. That was the reason for the newly-locked doors; prior to this the conservatory had been open to anyone who had the freedom of this part of the palace. 

He heard a soft scuffing of footsteps outside, and then the little click of the key into the lock. Emhyr stood, eager to see the look on Geralt's face when he first beheld his surprise.

It was only when Emhyr saw the blankness of shock wipe Geralt's expression clean that he was sure it _was_ a surprise. He'd given orders that Geralt was to be accommodated if he made any effort to discover what was happening in the conservatory, and that no report was to be made to himself in that event. If Geralt had only humored him in pretending that the gift was a surprise, that would have been well enough--a gift in return, in a way. Emhyr had thought that the likeliest scenario.

From the evidence now, Emhyr would appear to have overestimated Geralt's inquisitiveness, at least in this direction. Emhyr took a few cautious steps toward him as Geralt stood frozen in the doorway, face utterly still except for his eyes darting here and there. At his movement, Geralt's attention focused on Emhyr, and then he looked down, seeming to notice the key still in his hand. He pushed the door shut behind him, turning away from Emhyr to make sure it locked.

When he turned back he was grinning as he stared around. "Wow," Geralt said, "Uh... is all of this..."

"I did have them leave the trees, since you liked them so," Emhyr said, gesturing toward the citrus trees that still lined two walls, bearing lemons and limes as well as the oranges Geralt so enjoyed. "Though if you'd rather free up space for something else, of course..."

Geralt shook his head and stepped further into the room, his grin shrinking a little as he examined the plants. Emhyr stayed where he was, feeling not quite certain he ought to approach. Geralt didn't seem displeased, exactly, but this was not the way Emhyr had envisioned him reacting--though in truth he couldn't tell how Geralt _was_ reacting. He seemed still too stunned to quite take it in.

It was possible that Emhyr had taken a good idea to the point of overkill. 

Geralt methodically worked his way along the narrow central path between the plants. He didn't touch any of them--though he seemed to examine them carefully--except that he ran one finger over the just-opened petals of a rose before crouching to see what grew in its shade. He did not miss even the fungi growing in the near-darkness on the undersides of plant stands. 

Emhyr retreated bit by bit; he did not want Geralt to brush by him without touching, as he did all these dangerous plants. He wound up perched on one of the stools at the workbench, as-if-idly opening the ledger so he wouldn't keep watching Geralt and searching for a sign of what he was thinking or feeling. 

A curl of impatient anger rose in Emhyr--Geralt had said it was all right for Emhyr to give him things, he hadn't objected to any other gift--but a glance at Geralt snuffed it out. _Geralt_ wasn't angry; he wasn't protesting. He was keeping himself very contained, his movements small, his expression controlled.

The smile had vanished altogether now. Emhyr found he could not bear the prospect of waiting for Geralt to wend his way through all the remaining plants before breaking the silence, which had grown oppressive as noonday sun in the desert. 

"If you don't like it..." Emhyr tried, but he had no idea what to offer.

Geralt's head jerked up, and the smile returned. His eyes were pools of darkness and he was breathing a little fast, both signs Emhyr had seen often enough in his bed--but Geralt was deathly pale and his movements were stiff as he came to Emhyr, none of the usual easy predator's grace in his gait. Emhyr fought the urge to pull away, and Geralt came all the way to him, cradling Emhyr's face between his palms and kissing him roughly, frantically. It should have been like a dozen other kisses they'd shared, but it was all wrong. 

"Thank you," Geralt said, when Emhyr pulled back enough to break the kiss. "This is amazing, it's great, I just--" Emhyr recognized the wide eyes and stumbling words as _panic_ just as Geralt said, "I have to go. I have a contract, so I have to go. Now. Sorry, this is great, I just have to--"

Emhyr couldn't find even a wisp of anger for the absurdly transparent lie, not when it was so obviously driven by a desperate need to escape. Emhyr had no idea what he'd done to inspire it, but he had to do exactly what he'd done the last time he'd so terribly frightened Geralt. He had to step back and let him go.

"It's all right," Emhyr said softly. "I understand. You are a witcher; you must do as you must. I know you can't say when you'll return, but I hope you'll keep in touch with Cirilla, so she won't worry too much."

Geralt actually met his eyes directly at that, for nearly the first time since he'd stepped into the conservatory. He went still, staring, his hands resting motionless on Emhyr's skin. They felt cold, or at least colder than Geralt's usual furnace-warmth. Emhyr made himself look back steadily, radiating perfect calm and acceptance. He kept his own hands in his lap, making no move to touch or hold. 

"I'll--I just have to--" Geralt kissed him again, and Emhyr thought there was a hint of genuine gratitude in it this time--not for the spectacular gift of the alchemical garden, but for letting him go. "I'm sorry," Geralt repeated, pulling back. "I'll--I'll tell Ciri." 

With that he turned on his heel and walked so fast to the door that Emhyr's eye could hardly track him. Geralt's shoulders shook as he struggled for a few seconds to unlock it and let himself out, and then he was gone.

* * *

Geralt managed not to break into a run until he'd made the last turning on the way to Ciri's rooms. He knocked for entrance, trying to think as he did of where to look next if Ciri wasn't here--would she have gone out riding, maybe? He thought she did that sometimes, early in the morning, or--

The door opened on Ciri's chief lady-in-waiting, Julena; her expression went from baffled to concerned as she got a look at him. "Sir Geralt? What's wrong?"

"Geralt?" That was Ciri, sounding worried as well. "Jul, let him in, he's seen it all anyway."

Julena stepped back from the door and Geralt stepped in to see Ciri, wearing nothing but a loose pair of drawers and binding around her breasts, hunting through a wardrobe. She looked over her shoulder as Geralt came into sight. "What is it? What's wrong, should I--"

Geralt shook his head, clearing his throat with an effort. "Nothing, it's not--everything's fine, I just have to, uh--I have to go."

He knew he was doing this all wrong, being way too obvious, but he couldn't muster up another fake smile, or smoother words, with his brain jangling like a sack of copper pots on the back of a runaway horse. 

Ciri studied him with an intent look for a few seconds, then nodded. "Come with me, we'll see where to send you." 

Ciri tugged a long shirt over her head and strode through the little sitting room to one Geralt hadn't seen much before--an office, with bookshelves covering two walls and the rest papered over with overlapping maps and charts. More maps and papers covered the desk and a long worktable, but Geralt's eye caught on the standing mirror in the corner--no doubt spelled, to allow her to speak to other sorceresses. Had she patched things up with Yen by now? Or was she using it to speak to other sorceresses who were speaking to Yen, engaging in that oblique network of communication they all seemed to use to keep tabs on each other while feuding?

"You want to be out of the Empire?" Ciri asked, moving to the table to rifle through papers. "Up in the North? Or Skellige? If you just want to go to Corvo Bianco, of course--"

"I have a--" Geralt swallowed hard and shook his head at himself. Emhyr had politely accepted that lie; Ciri wouldn't. "I need a contract. I need to work."

Again Ciri stilled for a moment, looking at him, reading him. Geralt tried not to squirm under her scrutiny, though he didn't even know what he wanted her to see or not see. 

Emhyr hadn't even _done_ anything--not anything bad. This wasn't like that misunderstanding, when Geralt had gotten it all wrong and thought Emhyr would force him. It was a _gift_ , just another gift, just like the clothes and weapons and new tack for Roach and that pretty damn _collar_... 

But all of those things just sort of... happened. Geralt could maybe kind of guess how much the clothes or gear or weapons would cost if he'd wanted to buy the equivalent himself, though if he really thought about it they all had to be the work of master craftsmen who'd never even deign to let a witcher buy their wares. The collar, the Order of the Moon--that was a big unwieldy piece of jewelry, and what it meant, the honor it represented, was something intangible, something only an emperor could give. There was no use attempting to calculate a price.

The conservatory, though...

Geralt recognized the plants Emhyr had gathered together to grow there. He knew how many hundreds of miles apart some of them normally grew; he knew what kind of cold rivers and lakes and seas he'd have to dive into to get those water plants, what bogs he'd have to wade in to get the ones potted in more slurry than soil. He knew what kind of caves he'd have to descend into--the creatures he'd have to fight and the potions he'd have to take--to gather some of those fungi. He knew how precious each and every one of those things was, how many hours, how many days and weeks of toil and travel they'd cost him. 

And Emhyr had just... told somebody to make that happen. To bring all of them to lay at Geralt's feet, while Geralt himself spent a couple of weeks sleeping in a comfortable bed, eating gods-be-damned _oranges_ \--oh but not to worry, Emhyr had made sure he could still have oranges and fucking _roses_ and a whole big _worktable_ just for himself. 

There had been a rack of little vials for potions behind Emhyr when Geralt went to him, dozens of them. Geralt would bet they were tempered glass if not some kind of carved crystal or maybe fucking _diamond_ , as nearly unbreakable as they could be; not one of them would have a flaw or a hint of discoloration in its perfect clarity.

Geralt hoarded vials for potions, pocketed the empty ones if he possibly could, even when he had to take a draught in the middle of a fight. Good vials, ones that wouldn't break easily, that were perfectly clear so he'd never mistake the contents, were precious. And Emhyr had just lined up a few _dozen_ of them, so Geralt could use everything in the conservatory to brew up an entire school's worth of stockpiled potions if he wanted to.

Just for him, just because Emhyr--

"Geralt?"

Geralt shook his head sharply. Ciri's expression had turned gentle, and Geralt stepped up to the table and started looking over it himself. The map was covered in little markers, and the papers he could immediately see were... contract offers, all of them copied onto Ciri's expensive paper in some clerk's neat hand. Besides actual jobs offered, there were reports of monsters, murders, disappearances. 

"I've been having the couriers report anything that might be witcher business," Ciri said, gesturing at all of it. "There aren't many left to cover it all--I felt bad enough taking myself out of circulation, and now you're here too. I thought, this way we'll know if there's something we need to attend to, or maybe some things we can--well, Morvran mostly, at this point, but he listens well enough--can direct soldiers to look into or deal with, or..."

Geralt looked over the map again, picking out familiar locations, staggered all over again by this bird's eye view of where witchers were needed, everywhere in the North. He spotted the gap around Vizima--someone must have been there recently, scooping up all the contracts.

"I think Eskel was there," Ciri said, following his gaze. "Do you want me to send you near there? Maybe you could meet up with him, work together for a while."

Geralt was shaking his head even before the image formed in his mind of running to Eskel when he was running away from _this_. Inevitably Eskel would be amused, or disgusted, or both in turns, to see Geralt bolting away from _Emhyr var Emreis being too nice to him_. Geralt couldn't face the thought of even finding words to explain it, let alone dealing with Eskel's reaction.

"Right," Ciri said briskly. "Skellige's not in bad shape--I've been advising Cerys when anything strange crops up, and they've got it pretty well in hand. Redania's a mess, though." She picked up a stack of papers. "We've assigned scouts or squads to look into these, and there are a few new ones in this morning's dispatch that I haven't looked through yet--if I send you to Tretogor you'll get those reports first and you can decide how to go from there. Or would you rather be in Novigrad?"

Geralt blinked at the map for a few seconds, almost literally blinded by the one thought worse than Eskel's reaction to all of this: _Dandelion's reaction_.

He was going to write _ballads_. 

"Tretogor's fine," Geralt managed.

Ciri nodded. "Tretogor it is. Do you want to take Roach, or pick up a courier horse when you get there?"

Geralt stared at Ciri as the options raced through his mind--what it would mean to take Roach, what it would mean to _leave_ her, the gauntlet of Emhyr's people he'd run getting to the stable...

That decided him. "I'll get a horse there. Take care of her for me?"

"Of course," Ciri said, briskly, like this was some perfectly normal minor emergency and not... whatever it actually was. "Come on, you need to pack, I'm not sending you anywhere like this."

Geralt glanced down at himself. He'd barely bothered to dress before he went to see what little mystery Emhyr had left for him to unravel. He'd been amused, eager, expecting a particularly lavish breakfast, sex, baths, something _reasonable_ , at least by the standards of the last few weeks. And instead...

"Yeah," Geralt said, and turned on his heel to head to his own rooms. Ciri lagged behind, but caught up with him by the time he reached his own door--Geralt glanced back and realized she had trousers on now, and was lacing up a bodice over her shirt. Probably for the best.

He let himself into his rooms, which he'd visited only irregularly since his very first trip to Emhyr's bed. Everything seemed to be as he'd left it, though as he shoved clothes into his pack he thought that his socks and drawers had multiplied, and his clean shirts had undergone some transformations. He didn't look too closely at them. He didn't want to know, not right now. 

He ran practiced fingers over the pockets of his pack--his small tools and backup weapons were still in place just as they'd been that day Ciri found him on the road and brought him here. He tried not to think anything at all as his fingers encountered the shapes of vials, all the potions he'd had on him that day. He'd been running low, but if he was going to Tretogor he could buy the ingredients he needed easily enough. He hadn't been hurting for ready cash, at least, having done a dozen or more contracts back to back.

It wasn't like he'd had to spend a copper since he'd come to Nilfgaard. His pack still held all of its hidden coin stashes, right where he'd left them.

That took care of packing. Now he just had to get dressed.

He grabbed the light armor he'd been wearing when Ciri found him, which had stayed here, unused, ever since he'd arrived, while he wandered around practically naked in Emhyr's palace, not even bothering to carry his _swords_ half the time even when he _could_. Everything he pulled on was clean, mended, and--he didn't look closer than that. If they'd done more than clean and mend he really didn't want to know about it right at this moment, not when his options were to wear it or get dropped into Tretogor in nothing but his shirtsleeves. 

Then all he needed was his weapons, and those, at least, no one had touched but him, cleaning and sharpening them after every desultory training session. He grabbed his swords and slung them on, his hands moving automatically out of sheer ingrained habit while his eyes were stuck on what had been hanging on the same rack: the silver knife Emhyr had given him, the same night he gave Geralt the collar.

It was a really fucking good knife, and silver. And Emhyr had given it to him, and Geralt had accepted it; it was his. He could do what he liked with it now. He'd certainly learned better in his long life than to leave a weapon behind when it might be useful.

Geralt's hands scarcely paused between getting his swords settled and reaching for the knife. It was the work of a minute to strap its scabbard to his right thigh, where he could draw it without having to reach up or even across his body as he would for his swords.

It felt good there, and Geralt refused to think about why or what any of it meant. It was new, that was all; it always felt good to have an extra blade handy, like a new pair of sturdy boots or a fully stocked larder. 

He turned to Ciri, who was standing in a clear space, hands slightly raised like she was prepared to open the portal the instant he spoke. "I'm ready."

She nodded, but her hands lowered slightly. "Should I... is there anything you want me to tell him? Or _not_ tell him?"

Geralt gritted his teeth as his gaze dropped to the floor. 

Emhyr had sat so still, letting him go. He'd been so resigned to it.

He'd said, with the faintest note of helplessness in his voice, _If you don't like it..._

"Tell him," Geralt said, struggling for just the right words. "Tell him not to change anything. Not until I get back."

Ciri nodded, obviously accepting that Emhyr would understand what the message meant even if she didn't, and then her hands were moving, and the portal formed in the air of Geralt's sitting room.

He grabbed Ciri's shoulder and gave it a squeeze, beyond thinking of words to thank her or anything else to say, and then he stepped through into a stone-walled room he didn't recognize. He only had time to step over to a window and determine that he was not far off ground level in the eastern wing of Radovid's--former--palace before the door opened.

Geralt opened his mouth to offer some explanation, his fingers twitching toward Axii at his side, but realized from the person's placid expression that there was no need. The young man--clerk? courier?--just said, with an educated Nilfgaardian accent though in the common tongue, "Ah, Sir Geralt. Her Imperial Highness mentioned you might be turning up. Do you want to look at the dispatches?"

Geralt blinked at the guy for a moment while he fought down the absurd impulse to jump out the window and run instead, then nodded. "Yeah, she said there was some new stuff. Thought I'd better take a look."

From the way the clerk calmly nodded, stepped back, and gestured for Geralt to follow him through the door, that passed muster as a coherent explanation for his sudden presence. He wouldn't have to explain anything. No one would ask him why he was here. 

Within an hour Geralt had selected the most urgent-looking jobs, as well as giving advice--which was written down with a studiousness that probably meant his suggestions would transform more or less instantly into _orders_ \--on how ordinary troops in sufficient numbers could probably handle a few of the others, as well as how they could tell if he'd guessed wrong, and they needed to get the hell away and call for him.

Geralt himself was making for the poorer quarter of Tretogor, the rising sun casting long shadows at it rose above the buildings nearby, when his stomach grumbled. 

He hadn't stopped to eat breakfast before he went to see where Emhyr had gone this morning. He stopped in his tracks, rubbing at his belly and staring at the dirt road, the people moving around him, breathing the smells of shit and smoke and people and animals and food. 

It seemed impossible that he'd woken up this morning in Nilfgaard, let alone in Emhyr's--in _the Emperor's_ \--bed. Even more impossible that he'd lingered around the palace for _weeks_ , living like he was a brainless ornamental construct in a mage's illusion, lounging around eating oranges and fucking all the time. 

He glanced down at himself, at his too-clean, too-well-mended armor. At the silver knife strapped to his thigh. 

That much was real; that much had definitely happened.

Geralt shook his head and changed direction, aiming himself toward the strongest smell of hot bread and meat, where he could faintly hear a murmur of voices and clink of coins promising a food stall. The contracts in his pocket were real; Tretogor was real. The hunt ahead of him was real. This was his life, his path, where he belonged. 

Whatever dream he'd woken from didn't matter now compared to that. He had work to do.


	2. Chapter 2

Emhyr was still standing in the conservatory, looking around with a critical eye at what had so pleased him half an hour earlier, when he heard the door unlock. He had an instant's irrational hope, and then the door opened to admit Cirilla, looking grim as she locked the door again behind her.

Emhyr turned half away, suddenly reminded of the way she'd cheerfully warned him not to make her regret supporting his liaison with Geralt. He did not think things had already gone so irretrievably wrong that she was here to do him violence--although if she was he had no particular recourse but to face it gracefully. 

Even if she had not been pushed to that point, there was no doubt of where her loyalty lay, between himself and Geralt.

He listened to the soft sound of her footsteps approaching, which they did steadily until she was at his side. He watched from the corner of his eye as she looked around, and finally had to look at her properly to try to decipher the look on her face.

It was, he thought, rueful, bordering on sheepish.

"I should've looked before," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "Or... I don't know, I knew what you were doing. Maybe it's only obvious because I know how he reacted. But actually seeing it..."

Emhyr folded his arms over his chest and waited, and after another moment, Ciri turned to face him and said, "He didn't take Roach, and he did take the silver blade you gave him to wear to the ball, for whatever that's worth. And the last thing he said was to tell you not to change anything--until he gets back."

Emhyr had to look away at that, and felt his face settling reflexively into its most impassive mask as his heart beat faster and his mind began to race. At last he had more intelligence to work with than the scant moments of reaction he'd seen from Geralt. There was one blindingly obvious conclusion to be drawn; it shouldn't have needed saying, and it was too stark a relief not to. If only because he needed Cirilla's agreement that it was, indeed, the obvious conclusion.

"He intends to come back, then."

Ciri sighed, and it was not a reassuring sound. Emhyr forced his shoulders to relax, his hands to remain loose. 

"He intends to," Ciri agreed. "And I think he even actually will. I just... really don't know how badly this spooked him, so I don't know how far he's going to run. I doubt Geralt knows, either."

Emhyr could very much believe that, remembering the strange quiet panic that had come over Geralt. The knowledge was worth precisely nothing, when it came to regaining any peace of mind, but accurate intelligence was always preferable to false reassurance.

"And you can see why he ran," Emhyr said evenly, and made a small gesture around. "You can see the problem here."

He did not stoop, yet, to begging her to explain his lover to him, though he knew he wouldn't hold out long if she chose to make him sweat.

"Well, it's," Ciri echoed his gesture more broadly. "It's a _lot_. I told you people don't apologize to him, right? They mostly don't give him things, either. And I know you've given him stuff, but..." Ciri laid a hand on Emhyr's arm, seemingly without thought, drawing him with her as she pivoted again to take in the whole space. "I think I... I forget, because Geralt was forever trying to _settle_ me somewhere, and I always wanted somewhere to settle. When I get a chance to make a home somewhere, I take it, and try not to worry about when it's all going to burn down."

Emhyr gritted his teeth against the impulse to apologize, uselessly, for instigating many of the events which left Cirilla with the certainty that anyplace she called home would sooner or later inevitably be burned down. She'd told him once not to apologize, because then she would have to actually seriously weigh up what she could forgive, and it was simpler to just go on from where they found themselves. In truth, he could not imagine any adequate way to express his regret or make amends to her other than to cede the empire which had been his life's work to her, and that effort was already in progress.

"That's me, though," Ciri went on after a moment. "Even if I've had to run a dozen times, I still believe in the idea of having a home somewhere, having... _property_. That still makes sense to me, instinctively. Geralt's lived his entire life knowing he could never keep more than what fit in his saddlebags."

Emhyr opened his mouth to point out that Geralt had accepted real property in Toussaint, and shut it without making a sound. Geralt very clearly did not _live_ in Toussaint, however much he had liked the daydream of going there with Emhyr in some vague future. How long had he lasted there before he'd decided he needed to work and took off for the road again? He'd glowingly described Corvo Bianco to Emhyr: the vineyards, the garden, the basement laboratory for alchemical work--only now did it to occur to Emhyr that however fondly he spoke of the place, Geralt hadn't laid eyes on any of it for the better part of a year.

The likelihood of Geralt returning for any significant period of time seemed suddenly much lower. Emhyr laid his hand lightly over Ciri's, still resting gently on his arm. "Ah. I see. All this would be quite a... burden, then."

Ciri looked up at him with a crooked little smile, not quite sad but not simply happy either. "Definitely enough to be startling, first thing in the morning. Almost as startling as Geralt banging on my door when Jul, um..."

Ciri reclaimed her hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. Emhyr looked at her properly, noting that she was barefoot and half-dressed, and that half very informal. Something she might have, for instance, hastily pulled on in order to be decent when a knock on the door interrupted her while her lady... _um_. 

Geralt had mentioned, a week or so ago, that he thought there might be a romance brewing between Cirilla and her most senior lady-in-waiting, Lady Julena aep Daran. He had seemed delighted at the prospect of teasing Ciri over it; if he were here now, he would be prodding for details, making Ciri blush and laugh.

If it were Geralt doing it, Ciri would laugh, and talk about her young lady, and Emhyr could stand aside and bask in the ease they had with each other, the joy they so readily shared. He could even feel like he was in some way a part of their happy affection, if only because they deigned to let him witness it.

Emhyr, himself, in Geralt's very pointed absence, could not pry into his daughter's love life for anything short of a major succession crisis, and no daughter of the aep Daran family would make a misstep of that magnitude. By the time it occurred to Emhyr that he could still have said something politely encouraging without the sort of bantering or playful interrogation Geralt would have engaged in, the moment had passed. 

Ciri stepped a little away from him and said with some finality, "So, I do think he'll be back. He went to Redania; there's work for him there. The couriers and garrison officers will keep an eye out for him, of course, so if he doesn't come straight back here, we should at least have some idea of where he's headed."

Emhyr nodded and, mildly encouraged by that _we_ , said carefully, "I would appreciate any news you think he would not mind me hearing."

Ciri frowned a little, studying him, as if trying to divine some other meaning behind his words, or searching for any hint of overstepping. Finally she nodded. "I will. Of course."

There was no _of course_ about it, but Emhyr didn't argue. "Well. Have you had your breakfast yet, daughter? I missed mine."

Ciri graced him with another smile. "That's something we can fix, at least."

* * *

By nightfall Geralt had sorted out the drowner infestation in the sewers and some ghouls in the haphazard burial ground--body-dumping ground, really--used by the slum dwellers of Tretogor. He'd also tried to explain to the neighborhood elders how to properly dispose of bodies so this wouldn't happen again, but half a dozen corpses were already being carted in as soon as he said it was safe to enter, so Geralt didn't hold out much hope.

He collected on the contracts, accepting a little less than he'd been promised without arguing. What did he need their money for, after all?

Of course, by the end of that he wanted a bath and a place to sleep. He'd gotten spoiled; he was used to sleeping in a bed every night, having his own private hot bath at least once a day. For half a second he considered going back to the bed he knew would be waiting for him, or even to the palace here in Tretogor where he was sure they'd put him up in comfort, without demur. 

Both ideas made him feel a bit like he couldn't breathe, like something very big and very dangerous was lurking just out of sight, waiting for him to drop his guard. He pushed away any question about why or what that meant and headed for the shittiest tavern he knew of where he'd never actually had to kill anyone, and paid for food and beer and a bath and a bed. 

A few brightly-dressed ladies let him know he could pay for company, too, but the thought of a stranger's touch wasn't even tempting, and he lay down to sleep alone.

In the morning he got up and went back to the palace just long enough to report in and pick up a few more contracts, and spent a day and a night and a day doing more of the same. If he didn't sleep, he didn't have to decide what bed he'd like to be lying down in, and that seemed simpler. 

Anyway, there was work to be done.

* * *

When Geralt finally went to the courier stables to obtain a horse, for once something went almost the way he expected it to.

The stablemaster gave him a very long, skeptical look, and _hmm_ ed dubiously at the letter from the palace that was supposed to get him whatever he wanted. Geralt felt a little eagerness for a fight flow into his veins, the anticipation of having to argue with this man, or just having his job made more difficult by some idiot human.

What the stablemaster actually said, after his long hesitation, was, "Only if you'll take one of the boys with you on a second horse. Begging your pardon, Master Witcher, but I don't think I trust you to stay awake long enough to look after any of my animals properly."

"I'm," Geralt snapped, and then stopped short as the words, the tone, and the meaning of that frown on the stablemaster's face all penetrated. Not refusal, but... concern? 

And now that he thought of it, he did feel a bit like he had on those occasions when he mounted up, put Roach on the right road, and then dozed off in the saddle. He could get away with that, when it was Roach; a courier horse he'd never ridden before wasn't likely to carry him smoothly and steadily to the next crossroads before stopping for direction. 

He could almost suspect that it wasn't even his horse being neglected that the stablemaster was worried about, but Geralt himself going into a fight when he was so nearly spent already. 

Well, that was likely still concern for the horse in the end, as Geralt getting himself killed wouldn't lead to the courier horse being promptly returned, and they were valuable animals. Then, too, the stablemaster might be worried that someone back in Nilfgaard would take it amiss if he was the last person to see Geralt before he got himself killed. 

Geralt was awfully tired, and didn't actually like the idea of getting himself killed by some stupid beast in a swamp outside Tretogor. He had things to do, places to go and people to see, after this. How long after, he didn't know, but he knew he had ...things, beyond this.

"I see," Geralt said after a moment. "Would there happen to be a... cot, or a pile of straw, that I could borrow for a few hours?"

The stablemaster's expression cleared at once, and his broad shoulders sagged in obvious relief. "Couriers' bunkroom is just over here, sir."

The bunkroom--a narrow little space lined with board bunks, two high except where there was room to cram in a third--felt familiar in a way Geralt didn't let himself think about. There were a few young humans and elves sleeping in the bunks already, and a few more were sitting quietly on bunks or on the floor, mending gear or studying maps. The ones who were awake glanced up when the stablemaster entered, but only seemed interested in whether they were being called out. When the stablemaster waved dismissively to them and said, "Any empty bunk's fine," they went back to what they were doing, perfectly uninterested in Geralt.

He hauled himself into an upper bunk where he'd scarcely have room to turn over under the roof beams, and was asleep before he had time to consider taking his boots off.

* * *

Emhyr quickly fell into a new routine, breakfasting every morning with Cirilla. Every morning she had reports from the clerks and couriers in Tretogor: monsters Geralt had killed, people he'd helped, bounties he'd collected. Stables he--always briefly--slept in, and horses he borrowed. It was always specified that he had returned the horse in good condition, neither injured nor overtaxed. Naturally that would be a significant point, to couriers.

Every morning, when Cirilla ran out of news to report, Emhyr nodded and thanked her for telling him, and changed the subject. He wasn't going to badger her for further details. He certainly was not going to ask her to convey messages in the other direction; she made no mention of doing so on her own behalf. Emhyr made himself think of it as a ritual, requiring a set response from him, so he didn't have to consider whether to say something else.

After a week, Geralt had run out of contracts within Tretogor and the nearest villages, and was reported to be freelancing, roaming the woods and roads, hunting opportunistic bandits and necrophages. 

Emhyr nodded, and, as usual, said, "Thank you for telling me."

Cirilla seemed to finally reach the end of some exceedingly long fuse and burst out, "That's it? Aren't you going to--to--"

Emhyr raised his eyebrows. "I told him he was free to go where he liked, for as long as he liked. It would be unjust to complain when he does it."

He had been repeating those facts to himself hourly, during his tedious days, and in an endless mantra during his restless nights. He sounded almost convinced, saying them aloud now.

"Sure," Ciri said, and reached out to touch the backs of her fingers, with startling gentleness, to his cheek; Emhyr managed to keep still and allow the touch without flinching. "But--you miss him. And you know where he is. He's _staying_ where we know he is. Isn't that..."

For a moment, Emhyr permitted himself to consider it. He could very easily, with Cirilla's help or one of the court mages, portal to Tretogor this very day. He could simply set up in the administrative offices there, have the royal apartments opened for his use during an indefinite stay. He wouldn't demand that Geralt be brought to him, or chase him down personally; he would simply... move closer. He could make it easier for Geralt to come back to him, almost so easy that he wouldn't be able to resist doing it. 

Geralt could be back in his arms, in his bed, by tonight, and would scarcely have to make a decision to be there at all. He would only have to... acquiesce. 

Emhyr smiled briefly to cover the sickening thought and shook his head. "He knows where I am. He knows he has a place here. He'll come back when he's ready."

And Geralt, of all people, would not be playing some coquettish game, pretending offense and waiting for Emhyr to pursue. He didn't think Geralt had ever invited anyone's pursuit--certainly not Emhyr's. If the backfiring of his gift demonstrated anything, it was that Geralt was not pining for extravagant gestures or power conspicuously expended on his behalf. Very much the opposite, in fact.

Ciri studied him, searching. "You... before, you apologized. You had me bring him to you. You could..."

Emhyr studied his daughter and thought that, even if he couldn't ask her, or tease her, about her love life... perhaps he could still help her avoid some nasty mistakes.

"Something to keep in mind," Emhyr said carefully. "Being who you are and where you are, here and now--you wield more power than you may realize, in places you don't mean to bring that along. There is more weight behind any gesture you make than there ever has been, at any time in your life before this. That means that even a gift can be a command. Even an apology. Even to someone whose independence you appreciate--especially them, sometimes."

Ciri frowned, looking away and then sharply back to him, her frown only deepening. "What were you actually apologizing for?"

Emhyr nodded, acknowledging her correct deduction. "A miscalculation. More than that, I don't believe Geralt would care for you to know, and certainly is not mine to tell. But _he_ knows what happened, and he was happy to accept my apology."

Ciri dropped her gaze, still frowning. "So you're just going to... wait."

Emhyr nodded and produced another smile as he braced himself for another long day filled with the perpetual effort that went into doing nothing, when it would be so very much easier to act. A word from him--a significant look or a sigh at the right moment, to the right person--could set in motion events that would shake the very world, and instead he must hold it steady. "I will wait."

* * *

Geralt finished killing the ghouls that had reinfested the slum graveyard for the second time in a week, and took his own advice--since clearly no one else would--and walked around applying the hottest Igni he could muster to every corpse that wasn't already too deeply buried to burn.

By the time he'd done all that, he was dirty head to toe with muck, ashes, and blood, and so tired that he was tempted to lie down among the smoldering bones. He forced himself to walk back into the city, weaving through the slums until he reached a place where the roads were lined with separate pavements for walking on, and sat down on the first clean spot he found.

He stared at the paving stones for a while, and then tilted his head up and stared at the sky. Dawn was still hours away; he could go patrol a few hotspots. He just... didn't want to.

He didn't have to, either. He was pretty sure that his reports on bandits and necrophages had been duly noted, and the military squads sent out had been doing all right this week with the beginner-level problems. They could keep things under control.

Geralt could do whatever he wanted to. No obligations, no pressing needs, no responsibilities that wouldn't be picked up by someone else if he dropped them. No... restrictions. No pressure. 

For the first time in seven nights, he thought of sleeping in Emhyr's bed and felt nothing but weary longing for a soft mattress and clean sheets. No feeling of being trapped. No fear. No sense of something deadly lurking just out of sight.

Because, he realized, he wasn't trapped, and wasn't being hunted. He'd been running around Tretogor picking up trivial contracts that barely even needed a witcher--last night and tonight he hadn't even had contracts. At this point he was just killing what needed killing for his own satisfaction. 

And... nothing. No letter ordering or asking or hinting that he should come back. No oblique remarks from the clerks or couriers implying that the emperor's patience was running out. No... anything else. If he stood up and walked out of Tretogor and just kept walking, no one would stop him. He'd known that before he came here.

At least, he'd known that Emhyr had _said_ that.

Now, after a week, he thought... he might really believe it, down deep under the skin, down in his bones and guts, down where his instincts made decisions that saved his life before he'd even put a name to the danger. He could feel the perfect certainty there. 

He wasn't under threat. He didn't have to run. He didn't have to do anything in particular.

But if he went home, he could have a bath and go to bed, and have oranges for breakfast in the morning. He nearly dozed, imagining it so clearly he was almost dreaming it, and then he shook himself to alertness and stood up, walking briskly on the shortest route to the palace.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this fic's T rating hasn't changed. It isn't going to.

The clerks had all gotten used to him over the course of his week in Tretogor; no one batted an eye when Geralt walked into the section of the palace devoted to all the administrative business of keeping the Nilfgaardian peace in Redania. He was pretty sure he'd walked the soles of his boots clean on the way, and he wasn't actively dripping, but he'd have expected to be barred from the better sort of tavern in this state, nevermind a palace.

Still, no one stopped him. He walked all the way to the desks where clerks worked all night on various business, and most of them just kept working, scarcely seeming to notice him. The senior-most one, who seemed to work the night shift and had been the one to deal with him a few times in the past week, popped to his feet. "Sir Geralt? News?"

Geralt sighed and waved vaguely, "I cleared that burial ground in the low quarter again and burned the bodies that hadn't been put underground properly--someone should check it every day or two, make sure everything's buried or burned before the necrophages find it again."

The clerk nodded quickly. "I'll make a note of it, sir. And yourself?"

Geralt took a breath. He hadn't thought of how to actually ask. "Thought I'd head back to Nilfgaard."

"Ah!" The clerk had a bright look that somehow didn't actually seem like he was glad to be seeing the back of Geralt. "Yes, sir. Her Imperial Highness arranged a pre-set portal. Just through here."

The clerk led Geralt back to the same mostly-empty stone-walled room he'd first arrived in. In one corner of the room an intricate arcane figure was drawn on the floor in white, and on a plain little table to one side of it was a fist-sized polished crystal with a faint bluish glow. 

"Just set your hand on the crystal and the portal will open," the clerk said. "Safe journey, sir."

"Thanks," Geralt said absently, and when the clerk walked off he shut the door behind him and walked slowly over to the way home that Ciri had left for him--how long ago? How long had this been waiting for him? 

He looked down at himself, remembering how pristine he'd been a week ago; his freshly mended armor was scarcely recognizable now. The scabbard for his silver knife was stained dark with half a dozen kinds of blood, though the blade inside was oiled and sharp. He'd been glad to have it, a few times. 

Geralt shook his head--there was no sense in hesitating now--and laid his hand on the stone. He barely waited for the portal to open fully before he stepped through, and he stopped, frozen, at the sight of his own rooms in Emhyr's palace. Ciri had arranged for him to return to the same place he'd left from--which meant he was, for the moment, alone. 

Once again feeling like he'd just stepped into a dream, or just woken from one, Geralt hung up his weapons, set his pack aside, and sat down on the plainest chair in the room to get his boots off. His armor followed, and his underclothes, which only allowed him to properly smell himself. He winced.

He needed a bath before he even thought of lying down in the soft, clean bed in the next room--and it was entirely possible that the servants would appear with one in a few minutes, just knowing somehow that he'd returned. But that seemed like an unbearable delay all of a sudden, when Emhyr was--probably, hopefully--just down the hall.

Geralt wasn't sure exactly what the hour was, but the palace had a still feeling around him that suggested they were in the small hours, well past midnight and not yet nearing dawn; Emhyr was probably asleep. Geralt wouldn't wake him, but he could just... look in. See him. Leave some little token so Emhyr would know he'd come home--like Emhyr had left him that key.

It struck Geralt that he'd never given Emhyr a gift. For a moment he couldn't imagine what he could possibly give--it wasn't as if Emhyr needed things, and what did Geralt have? What could he lay his hands on now? He thought for a second of the conservatory--roses and herbs and mushrooms and poisons and that bench for alchemy, stocked with glassware and tools--and then he knelt and grabbed his pack.

One thing a week of back-to-back contracts was good for: he'd collected any number of interesting odds and ends for potions. And--there, wrapped in stiff canvas and tucked carefully into a side pocket--three harpy feathers. 

He didn't need them for anything in particular, but they were silky-soft and pretty, silver with an elusive rainbow sheen under a good light. He could never resist picking a few up when he cleared a harpy's nest, but usually he just carried them around until they got broken or bedraggled enough that the sight of them was sad instead of pleasing, and then tossed them away. 

These, though, he could lay on the bedside table or the pillow beside Emhyr's head; he would see them in the morning and maybe smile, because they were pointlessly lovely. Within the blink of an eye Emhyr would know who must have brought them.

Hopefully he would also smile for Geralt's return. He would be glad, wouldn't he? 

After a solid week of carefully not thinking about Emhyr, about his gift and the way he'd let Geralt go... He examined his own adrenaline-sharp memory of those moments, but he couldn't find any trace of anger or impatience in Emhyr's reactions. He might have gotten angry in the interim, because Geralt had made him wait so long; perhaps he hadn't pursued Geralt because he was seething quietly, saving up venom for the next confrontation, but...

That wasn't Emhyr he was thinking of. Emhyr had--for whatever unfathomable reason--consistently treated Geralt's affection as if it were... a gift Geralt gave him. Something to appreciate, but not something he had a right to. Geralt didn't think a week's absence would have changed that, but there was only one way to find out.

Geralt considered getting properly dressed again and then, with an ironic smile, he grabbed the dressing gown that had appeared in his room some time ago, though he'd never worn it. It fit perfectly, of course, and was so soft and beautiful that he felt a little bad for letting it touch his unwashed skin--but it was the right thing to wear now, he thought, when he was returning Emhyr's fateful midnight visit of some weeks ago. 

He slipped quietly out of his room and made his way to Emhyr's, and the door was not locked against him. He entered the first sitting room quietly, closing the door without a sound, twirling the feathers between thumb and finger as he headed for the door into Emhyr's bedroom.

He was only halfway there when Emhyr himself appeared in the doorway, wearing soft trousers and a loose shirt, looking a little rumpled but wide awake. He hadn't been to sleep yet, though it was long past when he usually did, and he wouldn't be here like this if some urgent matter had kept him working late.

He looked tired, and held himself warily still, but his eyes raked over Geralt, devouring.

No, Emhyr was not angry with him. Emhyr would not turn him away. The last vestige of worry faded from Geralt.

"I brought you some... feathers," Geralt said, realizing halfway through speaking that they were much more suited to being left as a token for Emhyr to find than to being presented in person, as if they were something actually worthy of being gifted to the Emperor.

But Emhyr showed no scorn; he almost smiled. "Have you? What--"

At the first sound of his voice Geralt was moving, leaving the feathers to drift to the ground as he closed the distance between them, pulling Emhyr into his arms for a desperate kiss. Emhyr surged into the contact, fiercely returning the kiss and closing his arms around Geralt.

It felt like standing at a roaring hearth when he'd just walked in from a blizzard, like gulping water when he'd been weak with thirst. Like swallowing a dose of White Honey when he'd been running on the ragged edge of his tolerance for potions. 

No one had touched him, all this long week. It hadn't seemed strange while it was happening, because his life on the Path had always been like that. The only respite from the work was when he bought or cadged a place to rest, and the only person who ever touched him gently was one he paid to do it. But there had been none of that, because Geralt had known whose touch he wanted, whose kiss he had cut himself off from for days and days, and now he was here.

Emhyr's grip on him shifted slightly, giving him half a second to anticipate the pleasure of Emhyr's fingers running through his hair; he realized the flaw in that plan at the same time he felt Emhyr's fingers tangle in the ash-and-sweat-grimed mess. Geralt drew back slightly and grimaced as he realized he'd left grimy handprints on Emhyr's formerly-pristine shirt, and a smear of... something... had found its way to Emhyr's forehead. 

Geralt wanted to wipe it away, but he knew he would only make it worse. He drew his hands back, ready to go and clean up before they did anything else, but Emhyr got his hand free of Geralt's hair and closed it firmly on the nape of his neck.

"You came straight here," Emhyr said. "Finished your work, dropped your swords, and came to me."

There had been a couple of pauses in there, and he'd set his weapons down with the care they deserved, but that was... more or less right. Geralt nodded.

"Good," Emhyr growled, stepping in for one more hard kiss. "Let me deal with the consequences of getting you back as soon as possible, then. It's precisely what I wanted."

Geralt reflexively fought his smile in response to that, and then he gave up and let it out, let the warm feeling of it rush through him. Emhyr had wanted him to come, even now; he wanted Geralt here with him, even as dirty and tired and awkward as he was. "All right."

Emhyr let go of Geralt's neck but took his hand to lead him through to one of the rooms in his suite that Geralt had only been in a few times. Emhyr's private bathing room was a sort of miniaturized version of the absurdly extravagant ritual baths under the palace, for when Emhyr didn't want to walk through half a mile of corridors before he could wash. It was practically utilitarian, by palace standards, like most of the spaces Emhyr actually lived and worked in. 

Of course, it was still the Emperor's bath, so it was a great marble pool set in a tiled floor, so smooth it could deceive the senses into thinking it was soft. The bath was big enough for at least three people to lounge comfortably under the water, and water from the hot springs that fed the main baths was piped up so Emhyr could have a bath at the touch of a tap, without even having to wait for servants to bring water if he cared to use his own majestic hands for such a mundane purpose.

Emhyr waved him toward the tub, veering off to the beautifully carved cabinet that held a variety of bathing accessories. Geralt dropped the dressing gown and stepped down into the bath. He turned on the water, rinsing his hands and feet and splashing himself strategically to get rid of the most obvious grime before he pushed the stopper into place. There were little bottles of bath stuff by the tap, and he poured a dollop of the oil he liked into the rushing stream of the water; the green, herbal smell of it as it hit the hot water nearly covered his own stink, and promised that he would come out of the bath smelling much better.

He looked down at himself to check whether there were any other obvious filthy bits to clean off before he sat down in the water, but he'd kept his gauntlets on enough that nothing had gotten ground in under his fingernails, and all ten of them were even intact. The dark patch covering his entire left hip was a bruise, and so was the discoloration across both shins, and the decidedly unappealing look of three toes on his right foot. Geralt flexed them experimentally as the water rose, but--no, that still hurt. Another day or two, at least, before they were fully healed. 

A little sound made him look up, and he found Emhyr--shirtless, face wiped clean--sitting at the other end of the bath with his legs dangling over the edge. He was studying Geralt's body very intently, and Geralt had a feeling that it looked significantly different to his eyes than it did to Geralt's.

After a few seconds he met Geralt's eyes. "Any new scars I should watch out for, my dear witcher?"

Geralt shook his head and moved to stand before Emhyr, irresistibly drawn by those three fond words. "Just bruises, nothing serious." 

When Emhyr reached out, Geralt raised his arms out of the way, letting Emhyr brush careful fingers over the bruise on his hip--but then his hand slipped up to Geralt's ribs. Geralt didn't even understand why--he didn't have any bruises there, and he was breathing fine--until he recognized how Emhyr was fitting his fingers into the hollows between the bones. "I, uh. Guess I wasn't eating enough. Working a lot."

"Mm," Emhyr said, and then stood up again and walked over to the wall to tug one of those cords that made servants appear, usually with food. Geralt had to turn away, too filled with _something_ to even look directly at him as Emhyr returned. He heard Emhyr sit down again where he'd been before, and then Emhyr said, "Come, sit. I'll wash your hair."

Geralt stood still for a few breaths longer, not out of defiance or disinterest, but to steady himself against the upwelling of feeling, the way his heart beat fast and his breath stopped. He was tired, that was most of it. He was tired and hungry and grimy and bruised, and Emhyr was... taking care of him. 

Emhyr said nothing, occupying himself with rolling up the legs of his soft trousers so the bathwater wouldn't reach them, as though that took up all his attention and left none for noticing what Geralt was doing, or how long he took doing it. Geralt shook his head a little at nothing in particular, and moved to sit, bracketed by Emhyr's legs. 

Emhyr immediately shifted one leg in, so that his knee was hooked over Geralt's shoulder, as if to hold him in place; the quick and easy sequence of motions required to haul Emhyr down by that leg and drown him in the steadily rising water flickered through Geralt's mind. It would take perhaps three minutes to complete, from the grab to the last twitches of resistance, and Geralt wouldn't even be breathing hard.

It was only an image, though--a reflex. He felt absolutely no inclination to do it, or even to squirm away from Emhyr's casually claiming hold. 

Geralt wrapped his hand loosely around Emhyr's ankle and closed his eyes. Emhyr touched the crown of his head--just making sure Geralt knew what was coming, because nothing followed until Geralt tilted his head back into the touch a little. Then Emhyr started working on his hair--rubbing it with a cloth, working his fingers through the tangles, getting the worst of the obvious muck out before he even tried to wash it. Geralt listened to the water falling from the tap and drifted into something like a pleasant dream of exactly what was already happening, perfectly absorbed in the moment. 

Emhyr's hands stilled, and he said, "Geralt? Shall I go get the tray, or should he bring it in?"

Geralt opened his eyes and spotted the shadow of a servant hovering just out of sight beyond the open door. There were probably people who'd care about being seen naked and entwined with a lover, but Geralt could say with absolute certainty that none of those people were witchers who couldn't remember their last solid meal. "Don't go."

"Of course not," Emhyr agreed easily, and the servant took his cue and came in, with a promisingly heavy tray that he set at Emhyr's right hand before slipping out of the room again. "Here, start with this."

He passed Geralt a big sturdy earthenware beaker, which had occasionally been among the dishes served to Geralt, although usually in his own rooms, not Emhyr's. It was large enough to hold a few pints, and a satisfying shape to wrap both hands around while he drank from it. He took it and breathed in the smell of broth generously laced with melted butter for an added satisfying richness. They had done this sometimes with suet or lard at Kaer Morhen, but using butter this way was a luxury; Geralt made a pleased little sound before he started to drink. 

Emhyr made a similarly pleased noise like an echo, and went back to what he'd been doing with Geralt's hair, only to pause again a moment later to turn the water off. It had risen nearly to the top of Geralt's chest, just about where he liked it. Geralt smiled into his broth and kept drinking. 

It was quiet without the rushing sound of the water; Geralt listened for a while to Emhyr's breathing and the little sounds his fingers made, working on Geralt's hair.

He was here; he'd come back to Emhyr, and Emhyr had welcomed him. At some point Geralt was going to have to say something about why he'd left, and now was as good a time as any. He was confident that Emhyr wouldn't want an apology, but he wasn't sure how to approach the topic. After a few minutes' thought he went with, "Did you change it while I was gone?"

Emhyr's hands stilled again, for just a second, then got back to work. "Cirilla told me you wished that to wait for your return, so I waited."

Geralt shut his eyes and just breathed against the rim of the beaker for a moment, taking that in. Geralt had asked--not even directly, sent the message through Ciri like a coward--and Emhyr had just... done as he asked. Waited. 

When he could get words out he said, "Tell me about it? I... didn't really take it in."

"It was a trifle excessive, wasn't it," Emhyr said, a little ruefully, as if he were the one who had done something ridiculous, not Geralt. As if it need be no more than that, like a prank that had gone a bit too far or a spat that had gotten briefly really heated, to be forgotten within a day or two. "What would you like to know?"

Geralt shrugged. He didn't know what he wanted to know, only that he had to make sure Emhyr knew he wasn't still going to be stupid about it. And, maybe, enough information about what to expect so that he would anticipate something other than that burst of incoherent alarm, the next time he stepped through that door. "What plants are there?"

Geralt tipped the beaker up again as soon as the words escaped his mouth--he might as well have asked what the walls were made of--but Emhyr showed no sign of annoyance at the simplistic question. "Even as briefly as you saw, you could probably name more of them than I can," Emhyr said, but there was no objection in his tone. "I think I told you I left the citrus trees? Between them are the herbs that prefer a modest amount of shade--Fool's Parsley, and Crow's Eye, and..."

Emhyr went on systematically naming plants from one side of the conservatory to the other. Geralt could follow the way Emhyr was mentally marching across the space, identifying one little territory after another. Knowing that Emhyr was picturing the garden as a map of herbal fiefdoms made Geralt's belly feel warmer than the broth could account for. 

At some point while he was talking, Emhyr started working cleansing oil into Geralt's hair--olive, with such a pleasantly mild scent of rosemary that it must smell of nothing at all to Emhyr. He rubbed systematically over Geralt's scalp as he continued describing the ranks of plants in drier soil, wet soil, carefully maintained mud, standing or running water. 

Geralt could picture all of them. Emhyr was right; when he consulted his visual memory of those few minutes, he could place everything Emhyr named and fill in the (very few) gaps where he missed one. It was like seeing the place all over again, but with Emhyr guiding him through it, and Emhyr touching him, and a hot bath and a warm drink. It would be his favorite place in the world by the time Emhyr got done talking.

Emhyr carried on with what he was doing as he spoke, massaging all over Geralt's scalp, working the oil all the way to the ends of his hair, and then painstakingly rinsing and combing it, one little section at a time. His hands never faltered, never hurried, as though having made the decision to wash Geralt's hair it did not occur to him to be anything less than meticulous. 

Geralt drank the last dregs from the beaker before Emhyr had finished more than a quarter of the rinsing and combing; Emhyr reached down and plucked it from his grasp. "More? Sweet or savory?"

"Sweet," Geralt decided, and Emhyr passed him a bowl and spoon: thick sweet custard, rich with eggs and cream and studded with bits of sharply flavored fruit. Geralt moaned a little around the first spoonful, and, flicking a glance upward, caught Emhyr smiling as he returned to his recitation about the conservatory. 

Geralt finished scraping the last remnants out of the bowl just before Emhyr finished his hair, which had surely never been so carefully cleaned in Geralt's entire life. Emhyr took the bowl and spoon and set them aside, then brushed his knuckles down Geralt's jaw. 

"There is also this--were you planning to grow it?"

Geralt swallowed. He wasn't, but if he said that, it would follow that he needed a shave, and then--

Emhyr's hand drew away, and returned holding a neatly sheathed razor by its blade--offering the handle. "I can hold a mirror for you, if you need one. Or you can further cultivate your outlandish Northern appearance, at least for one more night."

Geralt tilted his head back--baring his throat with the razor still held in Emhyr's hand, if backward--far enough to meet Emhyr's eyes, lips parted around a question he couldn't bring himself to ask. 

Emhyr smiled slightly and answered anyway. "There are things no sensible man asks a wolf to sit still for."

There was no resentment, no irritation, no silent demand for Geralt to prove his faith by doing precisely what Emhyr knew he didn't want to do. There was just... Emhyr, looking at Geralt and _seeing_ him, as clearly as he'd ever seen a battle plan. And still, somehow, being pleased with what he saw.

Geralt also spotted the pinkened skin around Emhyr's mouth; he reached up to brush a thumb over the spot where his week's growth of whiskers had stung Emhyr's skin as they kissed. He could feel the faint fever-heat of the irritated skin, and it sent a strange, tender thrill through him. Emhyr, for all the vastness of his power, could be hurt by so little. "Can't be scratching up the Emperor's face. I'm not that much of a barbarian."

"Mm," Emhyr said, his eyes dark and intent. "I don't believe I objected in the slightest. Who would have a Nordling lover if he didn't want a mark to show for it now and then?"

Emhyr placed no special emphasis on the word, but Geralt still heard it like a shout, like a struck bell. 

_Lover_. 

It wasn't quite a declaration of the things Geralt was pretty sure were true and remained scrupulously unsaid, but... Emhyr had been careful not to use that exact word, until now. Geralt knew it wasn't because Emhyr didn't think of him like that.

So maybe he understood as much from Geralt coming back as Geralt understood from Emhyr letting him go. 

Geralt took the razor from Emhyr's hand without looking away, and said, "Don't need a mirror. Do you have any of that fluffy soap?"

Emhyr blinked at him. "...Shaving soap?"

Geralt smiled and rolled his eyes. "Got a special soap for everything, huh?"

Emhyr snorted softly, like he wasn't entirely buying Geralt's Dumb Nordling bit--just because Geralt never bothered to _use_ shaving soap unless it was right in front of him, that didn't mean he didn't know what it _was_. Even if, prior to the palace, the vast majority of his experience of the stuff had been barbers putting it on him and he'd vaguely thought the frothiness was a trade secret.

But Emhyr brought the little soap pot with its brush around to his left hand, so Geralt could lather the stuff up himself, not demanding to be trusted even with that. Geralt fixed his gaze on the far wall as he swiped the brush, quickly but unerringly, over his face and throat, and followed it with the razor nearly as fast as he applied the soap. 

He dropped the brush back into its pot, set the razor aside, and then twisted and knelt up between Emhyr's thighs, hands on Emhyr's hips, to brush the newly-smooth corner of his mouth against the beard burn he'd left on Emhyr's cheek. "See? That's better."

Emhyr was frozen for just a second before relaxing into the feather-light contact, and Geralt realized that he'd moved inhumanly fast, in his eagerness for this. But there was no scent of fear even now, no resistance or retreat in Emhyr's posture. He just needed a second to catch up, and then his hand was on the nape of Geralt's neck again, and he rubbed his cheek against Geralt's, slowly, like he was savoring the feeling. Emhyr's skin actually felt a little rough in contrast to his own now, even where it wasn't prickled with stubble-burn--but then it was the middle of the night, so Emhyr would be due for his next shave in a handful of hours. 

Geralt really ought to make sure his-- _lover_ \--got some sleep before then. He drew back to look directly at Emhyr for almost the first time. He took in the faint signs of weariness in his face, and the visible hints that Emhyr hadn't been eating as well as usual for the past week either, even if the effects weren't as obvious on his body as on Geralt's. 

Geralt leaned in to kiss him softly, and then pulled back again to meet Emhyr's eyes as he said, "Let me take you to bed."

Emhyr's eyes widened, and Geralt saw a flicker of automatic resistance cross his face, which only made him more certain that it was precisely what he wanted to do. It was the same all over again as the fact that Emhyr was constantly giving him gifts and Geralt had never given him the tiniest token; Emhyr was always looking after Geralt, providing for his comfort, his every need. Geralt had never really tried to turn the tables.

But this week had taken a toll on Emhyr too--Emhyr had _worried_ that Geralt wouldn't come back, or wouldn't come back soon, and _still_ hadn't done anything to press him--and Geralt needed to do something about that. 

"Please," Geralt murmured, knowing exactly what tack to take to make Emhyr fold. "Let me have my way with you."

Emhyr let out a breath, and Geralt felt a little shiver run through him. "Well, when you put it that way, my dear, how can I refuse?"

Geralt kissed him, softly, buying himself a second to recognize that he knew now exactly why Emhyr had held off on fucking him for as long as he had. Because Emhyr had just given Geralt permission to do anything he wanted to him, and the permission was real, but that didn't mean it had been easy to give. Of course he would have assumed that Geralt, having survived as long as he had, had enough sense of self-preservation to feel that same resistance. 

Of course it was hard for Emhyr to surrender himself, even in the ways that didn't seem like they were going to hurt; those were the ones that could hurt you worst, if you missed your guess. Lucky for both of them, then, that Geralt was perfectly happy to roll over almost all the time.

This once, though. This once, Emhyr was allowing it, so Geralt would decide what he needed and give it to him, and it wouldn't hurt at all. 

Geralt pulled back and stood up, taking Emhyr's hand and tugging gently. "Come on. Come to bed with me."

Emhyr didn't argue. He didn't say a word.

Geralt didn't give Emhyr too much time to think, getting him naked and both of them just dry enough not to drip before leading him briskly to bed. When they reached it, Geralt was caught by the sight of the rumpled covers: Emhyr had obviously gotten out of bed when he heard Geralt enter the next room.

Equally obviously, he had been lying on the side of the bed where Geralt usually landed when they fell asleep here together. Geralt felt him tense, heartbeat and body temperature jumping with something like embarrassment. Geralt flipped the covers back with one hand and pulled Emhyr into bed after him with the other, giving no further sign of having noticed anything. 

Geralt lay down on his side--in his usual place, which gave up the smell of Emhyr's warm, weary body as Geralt hit the sheets--and curled on his side to face Emhyr, who lay down facing him. 

Geralt shook his head and finally let go of Emhyr's hand, prodding gently until Emhyr, only a little stiffly, turned onto his other side, putting his back to Geralt. He let Geralt reel him in, tucking Emhyr's back against his chest. Geralt sighed, feeling finally perfectly content as he pressed his face into Emhyr's hair. He had come back where he belonged, where he wanted to be, to _bed_ , and now he could stop. He could rest. 

Emhyr squirmed a little, and Geralt smiled to himself, safely out of sight. He did have one thing left to do: convincing Emhyr that this was what they both wanted tonight. He could smell Emhyr's exhaustion, could feel the way his body went heavy as soon as Geralt pulled him onto the bed; he was desperate for rest, even if he wouldn't admit it.

But if he wouldn't admit it, it wouldn't work very well, either. 

Geralt hummed quietly and ran a hand up and down Emhyr's bare chest, enjoying the soft sleekness of him--he was mostly hairless, on his body, and even more nearly scarless. There was a pleasant layer of padding over his sturdy muscle and bone; he had been well-fed and well-cared-for for a very long time. 

Even if Geralt had almost nothing to do with that making that happen, it was immensely enjoyable to be reminded of it every time he touched his lover. Emhyr was not a witcher, which was to say that he was not living constantly on the edge of death, or at least not in a way that was written indelibly into his body. For all that he was more breakable than Geralt was, he didn't _need_ to be strong in the ways Geralt was.

Emhyr made a mildly frustrated noise and tried to turn over to face him, and Geralt tightened his grip, tucking his hand under the softest part of Emhyr's side. 

"Geralt," Emhyr said.

"You said I could have my way," Geralt said, nuzzling at the nape of Emhyr's neck. "It's been a long fucking day, my dear majesty. You're tired, and I'm tired, and I don't want either of us trying to stay awake long enough for you to get me off six times before you think you've done a good enough job to call it a night."

Emhyr twitched at _my dear majesty_ , and gradually stilled after that. He'd mostly surrendered by the time Geralt stopped talking. 

Still, he couldn't let Geralt have the last word as easily as that. He squeezed Geralt's arm where it was wrapped around him and said, softly but very decisively, "It was as long a day as it needed to be, my dear. I would not have had you return to me one moment before you were ready to."

It was Geralt's turn to squirm a little, but at least he knew enough to quit while he was ahead. He made a soft agreeable sound and then made his breathing steady and slow, knowing Emhyr would match it instinctively when they were pressed close like this, and so be soothed to sleep.

Geralt was asleep himself before he was sure it had worked.


	4. Chapter 4

Emhyr woke up alone in bed, for the eighth morning in a row, and felt himself sink under a wave of misery heavier than any of the mornings before. He'd dreamed of Geralt returning to him, and--

He blinked, squinting at the level of light in the room; it was about as dim as usual, but only because the drapes had been drawn firmly over every window. And beside him, on the pillow Geralt usually claimed, was a folded bundle of shot silk and three gray feathers.

Geralt had brought him feathers. He'd come to Emhyr's rooms wearing nothing but that dressing gown, carrying those feathers, and... 

Emhyr let himself fall back to his pillow and cover his face with his hands to hide the foolish smile he couldn't suppress. 

Geralt had lounged in his bath, happily eating and letting Emhyr fuss over his hair for an unconscionable length of time when they both ought to have been sleeping. Emhyr had had the pleasure of guessing right about where to set the boundary of things he could do for Geralt, and Geralt had seemed surprised and pleased by that. 

He'd brought Emhyr to bed and... held him. The memory made Emhyr want to hide even from himself, to keep from looking at it straight on even in his own thoughts. It was somehow more mortifying and more precious than any sex they'd had, to have been touched, pulled close, for the sheer sake of knowing they were as close as they could be, skin to skin. Because that was what they'd both needed, to be able to rest together at the end of the week they'd had. 

Emhyr ran a hand over his own chest and belly, remembering the easy, aimless way Geralt had touched him. 

He remembered also, then, that he had half-woken once before, with Geralt's arm across his middle and something like a _growl_ hanging in the air. Mererid had come in--wisely--to check before sending in any other servants; he naturally would have been well aware of the hour of Geralt's return and where he spent what remained of the night. 

Geralt had declined to have Emhyr depart their bed in no uncertain terms; Emhyr, half-awake, had endorsed the growl with a wave of his hand. Mererid had drawn the drapes and left them in peace. 

However much longer Geralt had elected to stay in bed after that, he had evidently wished to be up and about and slipped away without waking Emhyr--but he had left these signs, so that Emhyr would know he hadn't fled again. He was simply... momentarily elsewhere. 

Emhyr sat up and reached for the feathers, which were so soft that he couldn't resist running his fingers up the edge of each of them, fascinated. Then he got out of bed and shook out Geralt's dressing gown--it shimmered silver and black depending on the way the light hit it, and still smelled a little like Geralt had, before his bath last night. Not unpleasantly so, but just enough for Emhyr to be quite certain that this _was_ the dressing gown Geralt had been wearing. 

Emhyr slipped it on and belted it firmly. It fit well enough to be comfortable, but the looseness of the shoulders was another absurdly pleasing reminder of who the garment properly belonged to. Emhyr tucked the feathers--carefully, so they wouldn't be crushed--into a pocket, and then set out in search of his witcher.

His rooms had the perfect stillness that made him suspect he was alone, but Geralt was surely capable of making himself undetectable to an ordinary human, even one as habitually on his guard as Emhyr. He looked carefully around each room as he passed through, but reached the far end of his rooms without discovering any sign of Geralt's presence.

There were other places that might have been more logical to check, but Emhyr picked up a certain key and headed out of his rooms in the direction of the conservatory.

His guess was promptly confirmed by the empty folding table set up beside the conservatory door: clearly the servants assigned to keeping Geralt fed no matter where in the palace he roamed had tracked him here and delivered his breakfast to the nearest point they could reach. There would hardly be space for the table, small as it was, inside the conservatory, so Geralt had likely retrieved his tray and taken it over to the worktable.

Emhyr took a fortifying breath, assuring himself that it was going to be fine this time. Geralt had come back to him. He had asked about the conservatory; he had come here very much of his own accord this morning. If he was not perfectly pleased with it as it was, if he wanted to change things now that he'd returned, so much the better. Emhyr let himself in with his key, and meticulously locked the door behind him before he turned to look for Geralt.

As expected, he was at the worktable, leaning over it with one elbow propped on the surface, the other arm outstretched to snag a roll off the breakfast tray as Emhyr watched. He looked to have made considerable progress through the meal already, and there were several spiraling orange rinds piled up.

Geralt was shirtless, clad only in a pair of very soft black silk trousers pilfered from Emhyr's wardrobe, meant for lounging in his leisure hours. Emhyr rarely wore them, because the slippery thin fabric felt somehow more naked than wearing nothing at all under his dressing gown; he knew they must feel exquisite against Geralt's skin. They pulled rather tighter across the backside and thighs than they would on Emhyr. He allowed himself a moment to stare, during which Geralt continued eating and... doing whatever else he was occupied with.

Emhyr dropped his gaze to his feet when he began to walk further inside, watching the narrow path rather than stealing another glance at Geralt. Tripping due to distraction would be rather more than just ignominious, here.

When he was within arm's reach, Emhyr stopped and looked again. Geralt still gave no sign of having noticed his presence, though Emhyr was fairly certain that nothing short of incapacitating intoxication could have prevented him from actually noticing someone approaching his unprotected back with no particular stealth. Geralt simply... was allowing Emhyr to walk up behind him without bothering to look and see what he was doing. 

Emhyr studied Geralt at this closer range--his eye was drawn, now, to the expanse of his bared back, which was somewhat less scarred than his chest and arms. However mortal danger might find Geralt, _running away_ seemed the least likely possibility.

His skin already seemed less tightly-drawn than it had the night before, though there was still a visible ripple of ribs at his sides. His hair, looking more glossy and smooth and purely white than Emhyr had ever seen it, was gathered into a messy knot at the back of his head, held in place with a leather tie. Several locks had already slipped free; as Emhyr watched Geralt huffed and tipped his head back, shaking it sharply. He was clearly trying to get his wayward hair out of his face without actually freeing a hand to deal with it.

"Let me, my dear," Emhyr said, without considering whether that was the first thing he meant to say. But he was already stepping forward, and Geralt had gone still--not frozen, but waiting. Emhyr used both hands to smooth Geralt's hair away from his face, realizing as he did that he had, once again, perhaps taken a good thing too far: as beautifully silken as Geralt's hair was after his attentions of last night, it was also too perfectly frictionless to be easily pulled back, slipping away even from Emhyr's fingers as he stroked it. 

"Hm," Emhyr said, and then he tugged the tie free, loosing the rest of Geralt's hair, and ran his fingers through the whole mass of it, combing it out.

Geralt, without making any motion to remove his hair from Emhyr's grasp, reached out and picked up a pastry from his breakfast tray. Emhyr took that as tacit permission to spend at least as long at this as it took Geralt to eat, and set to work without lingering too much for the sheer sensual enjoyment of his hands in Geralt's hair. 

There was a strange familiarity in the motions his fingers fell into; Pavetta had always managed her own hair, which fell to her waist by the time they met, but minor mishaps on outings with Ciri had once or twice left Emhyr responsible for braiding her pale baby-fine hair so that it would stay out of her face for the duration. 

Emhyr found himself smiling a little at the thought that neither Ciri nor Geralt would mind the comparison. In fact, they would probably both enjoy hearing about four-year-old Ciri running down a rocky beach howling at the top of her lungs, in pursuit of six-year-old Hjalmar an Craite. He had stolen the ribbons from her braids, leaving them to unravel in the wind as she chased him down and took her revenge.

Emhyr took some care with the braiding, with the memory of Skelligan styles called to mind. He made a neat symmetrical pattern from Geralt's temples to the back of his head, where he tied off the braids and combed out the rest, letting it fall loose to his shoulders where it was safely out of the way. 

Geralt reached back to poke at the braids, shedding a few pastry crumbs into his pristine hair, and Emhyr huffed and brushed them away. Geralt captured his fingers as soon as he'd done it, and gave a gentle tug, bringing Emhyr up to close the last of the distance between them. Emhyr let himself be moved, pressing his hips to Geralt's ass and leaning down against his back; from there he could peer over Geralt's shoulder to see what had so transfixed him.

Accidental poisoning due to getting his breakfast and his toxic ingredients mixed up seemed unlikely, at least. There was an assortment of jars and objects wrapped in canvas or leather or paper--bits and pieces collected in the course of the last week's work, Emhyr thought--but they were all set to one side, with the breakfast tray firmly on the other. In between, Geralt had the garden ledger open as well as a blank bound notebook that had been part of the accoutrement provided for his work. From the looks of it, he'd already filled several pages with neat, small writing.

Emhyr squinted at it. He was perfectly well able to read the Nordling alphabet or Skelligan runes as well as the system used for writing Elder. This seemed to be none of those, nor Ofieri or Zerrikanian characters either, which he could identify if not decipher, beyond knowing a few stray glyphs that came up often.

"Is that a witcher cipher?" Emhyr asked, fascinated.

"Nah, just shorthand," Geralt said. "Once you know the trick it's pretty easy to read, but I doubt anyone around here knows it. Figured it was better not to leave my notes on potion-brewing where anyone could read them and get clever ideas."

Emhyr hummed agreement, as a range of clever ideas, most of them likely to be fatal to someone, bloomed in his mind. He could point out that the room was locked, but of course altogether too many people still had access to it for Geralt to be confident. A few mere door locks, for that matter, would not seem especially secure to Geralt; such things surely would not slow him down much if he were intent on a goal. Emhyr made a mental note to look into suitable magical wards.

"Does Ciri know the trick of it?" Emhyr asked, as there was no need to discuss the other part.

"She's seen it before," Geralt said, giving Emhyr's hand a squeeze. "If she sat down and worked at it she could crack this pretty quickly. Otherwise it's probably down to Eskel and Lambert, and either of them would know well enough not to do anything stupid." Geralt went a little more still as he spoke, and Emhyr thought that Geralt's mind was supplying him with a range of things Eskel and Lambert could possibly do with his notes. "Not stupid in a way that'd be dangerous to other people," Geralt amended. "Or fatal for Eskel or Lambert. Probably."

Emhyr snorted softly. "Noted. I imagine it would be beyond anyone's power to keep them from doing anything they liked if they came to visit here, in any case."

Geralt twitched a little at that, but he was quiet for a moment before he said, "They wouldn't want to make trouble for Ciri. They'd behave."

"Ah," Emhyr said, thinking of the way Geralt had been so often alone, so quiet even in company, between the time Ciri brought him here and the time Emhyr approached him. He had even said it that night, promising not to tell Ciri if the rape he'd anticipated had materialized, because he wanted her to be happy here. And even since then, he made endless jibes at his own supposed Nordling barbarism, as if trying to anticipate criticism.

"I suppose that would become rather wearing for them," Emhyr offered, when Geralt stayed quiet and still--not eating, not writing, just breathing with Emhyr pressed to his back. "To be in a strange place, with unfamiliar and exacting standards, and having to be careful not to reflect badly on Cirilla. It would be very difficult to put up with that for long."

It would, in fact, likely lead to a sudden retreat at the first thing to spook them--or when the last straw broke even a witcher's endurance. The past week, for Geralt, must have been like... well, like getting out of his court clothes after having to wear them continuously for weeks. He had been able to be himself, among other northerners, and to pour all his pent-up energy into the work he excelled at, rather than just spending all his time and attention on trying not to make mistakes.

Emhyr had a sudden and unpleasantly vivid memory of the first several months of his marriage to Pavetta, before Cirilla was born. They'd stayed in Cintra, in the palace, and Emhyr had been constantly under the eye of his--to say the very least--fault-finding mother-in-law, while struggling to adhere to the etiquette of a new court with every eye upon him looking for signs that he was little better than the animal they'd first seen him as. 

By then he'd been rusticating for more than a decade; he hadn't quite realized how much freedom living in exile had given him until it was very abruptly gone. There had been times when he missed being cursed, when he thought he would suffocate if he couldn't slip away and spend a night under the open sky.

It had been exhausting, to say the least. Removing to Skellige, with all its informalities, had been an amazing relief, and Emhyr did not like to think about how much of his eagerness to take back his father's throne had been a desperation to avoid ever returning to live in Cintra for another extended period.

Well. Geralt also had an escape to look forward to, with no further maneuvering required after. "It will be easier next year," Emhyr said. "When we're in Toussaint."

Geralt went utterly still for a second and then twisted under him; Emhyr stepped back to let Geralt turn to face him, and Geralt immediately tugged Emhyr back into contact. Emhyr braced his hands on the worktable to either side of Geralt's hips. 

"You..." Geralt's eyes were searching, his hands fisted in the silk at Emhyr's back, as if he needed to hold on to keep Emhyr close. "Is that where we're going to be a year from now? Even though you made all of this for me, so I could be happy here?"

Emhyr closed his eyes, raising a hand to Geralt's nape to tug him in and leaning his forehead against Geralt's, as he finally fully recognized the snare Geralt had run from--nearly at the same time Geralt was recognizing it, he thought, from the abrupt way Geralt had asked the question. He hadn't been building up to this, not intentionally. Geralt would never be so circuitous about something so momentous.

Just as well; Emhyr could quash the notion before it took root. "I arranged all this in two weeks, my dear witcher. Given a year's warning, we can work out how to recreate or transplant it wherever you like. No plans have changed; I can't swear to the date we'll leave, but I will abdicate, and Cirilla will be crowned, and then I will remove to Toussaint, or wherever you like." He felt an excited little tremor run through Geralt and tilted his head back to meet his eyes again with a mildly admonishing look. "Within reason. I don't believe I would be very pleasant company if I stayed for very long in the north of Kaedwen; my tolerance for snow is limited."

Geralt's grip on him tightened, then eased, but he was smiling a little now. "Don't think there's room for all this at Corvo Bianco. Not unless I start ripping out grapevines, and that's against the local religion."

"I have some holdings in the Sansretour Valley," Emhyr assured him, which was true enough; if he did not presently own anything suitable, he very soon would. "Certainly enough land to relocate a greenhouse. And, as it will not be a surprise in any respect at all, you will of course be free to," Emhyr waved one arm. "Winnow all this down to something reasonable. No need to move anything that you'd rather not have."

"Oh, but..." Geralt tipped his head away, and Emhyr watched his face instead of following his gaze. Geralt was looking all around the conservatory, and he appeared genuinely torn. "It's all... I can try _so many things_ \--but if I have a year to work with all of this first, maybe I won't need..."

Emhyr had to kiss him, just briefly. "Or bring every stem and leaf, my dear. Take over another garden if you like, and fill it with everything I didn't think of. As it is, I believe there are some overflow specimens Martin will want to consult with you about. We'll transplant whatever you like when the time comes."

Roses, Emhyr thought. Wherever they went, he would want a rose garden, even if it would be necessarily a much more modest plot than the one here at the palace. He would still want to sit with Geralt among roses in the sun, now and then.

Geralt kissed him back, though with his eyes open, his gaze still roving over his garden. "It's amazing. I can't even think of anything I could use that's not here, other than..." Geralt waved back at the table, and all the bits and pieces which were the fruit of his labors this past week. "And before you think of it, I don't want to set up a zoo full of monsters to harvest teeth and claws and things from at my convenience."

"Naturally not," Emhyr agreed, even as he began automatically trying to envision a way to manage it. "It would be impossible to staff."

Geralt focused on Emhyr then, blinking, and Emhyr had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes go dark with happiness before he threw back his head and laughed helplessly. He sagged back as the laughter trailed off, resting his elbows on the worktable, effortlessly arching backward and laying himself out before Emhyr.

It was impossible not to see the invitation, Geralt laying himself out like territory to be claimed, all unguarded. Possibilities flashed through Emhyr's mind, desires and tactics melding. He could lean in and kiss; he could touch, stroke... tease.

Emhyr smiled and drew one of the feathers from his pocket, and Geralt's eyes widened, darkening all over again in something that was not, Emhyr thought, so simple as the startled happiness of a moment before. He could see the muscles of Geralt's abdomen tightening, anticipating a ticklish touch.

With a tiny smile, Emhyr drew the feather's softest edge over his own lips as he continued looking Geralt over; Geralt's hips pressed against his, and Emhyr could feel him hardening. He drew the feather along the line of his own jaw, and Geralt's mouth fell open, letting out a barely-voiced sound.

"You didn't say," Emhyr said, making his own voice steady and cool. "Where did these feathers come from? You brought them for me, so I assume they're something rather special."

Geralt blinked, mouth working, then said, "They're, ah..." Emhyr relented just enough to trace the line of Geralt's sternum with the feather, just barely making contact. Geralt shivered violently and then closed his eyes. "Harpy. Harpy feathers. I... don't need them for anything, they're just. Pretty. But I... usually, if I pick them up, I just carry them around in my pack and then they get all broken and I have to throw them out. I thought you... you'd have a safe place to keep them."

Emhyr did not permit his breath to catch, but it was a near thing, as he considered that he could be--that Geralt wanted him to be--that, for his restless wanderer. A safe place. A repository of things Geralt couldn't keep, otherwise. 

"Naturally," Emhyr murmured, and reached out to trail the feather down Geralt's throat, which got him a slightly desperate look. "I shall have to see if I can make one or two into writing quills, so I can take one in hand and think of you even when I'm busy with other things."

Geralt's eyes went a little wide, and Emhyr knew that they both knew just _what_ the harpy feathers would remind him of, at such moments. A torment as much for himself as Geralt, but a welcome one. Emhyr made a show of raising the feather and studying it, tilting it this way and that to see rainbows slide along the vanes. It did have a well-sized calamus, at that; it would write a fine line but ought to hold ink nicely.

"Yes, that will do well," Emhyr said. "Though if I use them so, eventually they may still be broken."

"I can bring you more," Geralt said a little hoarsely. "Next time I go out. I can... I'll make sure to bring some."

Emhyr nodded slightly, smiling. "That will do very well indeed, my dear witcher." He took a half-step back, sensing that it would be best to refocus before either of them had to make those promises more explicitly--that Geralt would always be free to go, and would always come back.

Or before this conversation went down the other obvious path, but Emhyr had no intention of fucking Geralt in a room with walls made of glass, where there wasn't a single square yard of horizontal space that was safe to recline upon.

"What about the rest of that? Those are the things you do need for some alchemical purpose?" 

Geralt chewed his lip a little, visibly reorienting. After a moment he reached out and put his hands on Emhyr's sides to move him to one side--toward the breakfast tray, so that Geralt remained firmly between Emhyr and whatever those assorted items were. Emhyr picked up a tart and put it in Geralt's hand, then took some sliced fruit for himself--Geralt never ate much in the way of fruit or greens until he'd polished off every ounce of meat or dairy at hand, and there were still two or three oranges which would do nicely if Geralt decided he had room for them.

"This one," Geralt said, reaching out for a wrapped bundle the size of his fist, and then he stopped and looked over at Emhyr with a little crease between his eyebrows. "Do you, uh... have time for this?" He punctuated the question by eating half the tart in one bite, but kept his concerned attention on Emhyr.

"I expect that by now Mererid has made it clear to everyone who needs to know that I am taking a day in seclusion," Emhyr said blandly. "After the past week of my undivided attention, I imagine it will come as a relief to much of the imperial administration. If you'd been away any longer I might have started getting personally involved in some of our key projects, which I doubt would have been particularly enjoyable for anyone, even if it might move things along with more speed."

Geralt blinked. "Key projects like..." 

Emhyr could see Geralt restraining himself from enquiring whether Emhyr planned to conquer yet more of the world before abdicating, in the clear knowledge that he might not like the answer. Emhyr shook his head. "Roads, mainly. All the routes that were non-critical for moving troops or supplies have been badly neglected for years now. The most direct route between the city and Toussaint, for example, is in a shocking state of disrepair."

Geralt smiled a little and crammed the rest of the tart into his mouth as he glanced up at the sky, gauging the time. "Lunch with Ciri?"

"In a couple of hours. Will you join us? I believe there have been... developments between her and Lady Julena. You should ask her."

"Oh!" Geralt's face lit up. "That--uh, the morning I left, when I went to find Ciri. It was early, but Julena was with her and..." Geralt's grin went sharp. "Yeah, I've gotta ask her about that."

"Excellent," Emhyr said, suppressing a smile of his own at the thought of watching that conversation. He leaned against the worktable, his eyes tracing the lines of Geralt's shorthand as he ate some melon. "So, will you tell me about it? We had reports of what contracts you executed, but that hardly gave a picture of what you were up to."

Geralt shot him a knowing look and pushed the notebook over to Emhyr so he could study it more easily. Still his voice was almost shy as he said, "You really want to...?" 

Emhyr nodded firmly, reassured that Geralt was taking this as a lover's interest in his work and not Emhyr prying into corners of Geralt's life that did not concern him.

Geralt shrugged and reached for a packet. "The slum in Tretogor doesn't have ready access to a real cemetery, so there's this patch of waste land they keep using to dump bodies, and it attracts necrophages like it was built for the purpose. I was there three times in a week, killed so many ghouls I stopped collecting parts after the second time. These are teeth."

Emhyr reached for a sweet bun and munched, listening in fascination as Geralt talked about not only the work he'd done but why he'd had to do it, what he'd learned from it and what he could use. He grew increasingly animated as he spoke, and also ate anything Emhyr put in his hand, though he scarcely seemed to notice the food was there. As he went on, describing the potions he would make, he darted away from the table to pluck leaves and petals from a few of the nearby plants, showing them to Emhyr and describing their special uses.

This was what Emhyr had wanted, eight days ago. This was the end they'd started toward, that morning--and yet Emhyr could not think of the week in between as wasted. They had gotten here exactly when they should, by the only road that led from there to here. Emhyr settled in to enjoy it, and only occasionally played with a feather in such a way as to make Geralt lose his train of thought entirely.

They would have plenty of time for that, too. Geralt had made him wait, after all; it would be only just to return the favor. For now, Emhyr would simply enjoy Geralt enjoying his garden.


End file.
